


Decibels

by SomewhereApart



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 06:04:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16948392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewhereApart/pseuds/SomewhereApart
Summary: Robin tries to cope with all the noise in NYC.





	Decibels

Sometimes he thinks this city will simply drive him mad.

It’s not just the crush of people, the lack of any proper green space, the entire lack of fresh air that seems to go unnoticed by New York’s other denizens.

It’s not just the persistent ache in his chest where Regina ought to be, or the strangeness of trying to build a life again with Marian when they are both somehow so different than they once were, trying to parent together when she’s missed the first four years of their son’s life.

No, sometimes he thinks living in this city will drive him mad simply by the sound of it.

New York is loud.

Or rather, New York is never quiet. The City That Never Sleeps, they call it, and the city is not alone in that. He lies in bed at night, and even then, even in the dark, he is assaulted by it. The drip of a faucet that refuses to be fixed, the hum of the refrigerator that never ceases, the voices of a group of drunken revelers as they stumble down the next block over, an argument with a taxi cab driver over a fare, the rumble of a trash truck as it thunders down the street below in the middle of the bloody night.

Even at three AM this city is never silent - nor is it ever dark. Not truly. He recalls, vividly and yet somehow as if it’s all a distant dream, moonless nights in the Forest where wandering too far from camp would have you struggling to see your own hand in front of your face. Recalls staring up into inky blackness in Regina’s castle at night, the windows shuttered and candles extinguished.

Sleep came easier then.

Now it evades him, light slanting across the ceiling from the windows; even with the shades drawn it creeps through around the edges. And everything hums, everything whistles, everything rumbles. Whenever sleep comes close, there’s another noise, another sound, and it jolts Robin awake.

His fitful bouts of sleep only come in the wee hours, when exhaustion is extreme and his eyes feel like sandpaper, his head like it’s stuffed with cotton. Only then does he find some rest, and even that is not truly restful, for his dreams are filled with Regina. Her hair, her smile, her laugh. Her tears, her anguish, her betrayal. He wakes every morning feeling guilty twice over - once for even trying to move on from Regina, and once for not having been able to do so.

And it’s not just him.

No, Roland is a mess as well. He’s murder to put down, fights and struggles against sleep just as his father does. Every creak of floorboard, every honking horn, every shout from the street below tugs him away from the edge of sleep.

They’re in a permanent state of overtiredness, he and his son. Eternally surly in the mornings and snappy in the afternoons, Roland melting into tantrums on a near-daily basis now that he’s unable to succumb to his usual naps. It wears on Marian’s patience, he can see it, he can tell.

And part of him derives some small, snide satisfaction at every clench of her jaw when one of them bites with exhaustion - it shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, he should feel more guilt (and does, after that first moment of bitterness).

But somehow she is the only one immune. Marian, who had always been such a light sleeper, who had been kept awake by glowing firelight through a tent canvas, or the snap of a twig in the woods nearby. Here in this godforsaken city, she sleeps like the dead. Sleeps through sirens, and scuffles and the never-ending hum of that damned refrigerator.

He tries not to resent her for it, tries even harder when he finds himself wishing he was back there. Back in Storybrooke, back where it is quiet, back where the night brought the sound of crickets instead of car horns.

He hadn’t lived there long, but it had begun to feel something like home in a way this city hasn’t managed to in just as much time. He is homesick for tall trees, and thick brush. For the sounds of birds and squirrels. For the stars (there are none here, the sky is oddly blank, a disconcerting darkness staring back at him when he looks up at night).

For streets that fall silent at a reasonable hour and stay that way until dawn.

A place where a man can be alone with his thoughts - can hear his own bloody thoughts.

Everything is wrong here. Everything feels off, and he carries a deep, heavy longing in his soul for home.

For her.

He tries not to think that way, but he cannot help it.

He wants to bury himself beneath the earth with her again, shut himself away where there is no light, and no sound, and nothing to disturb them, and then he wants to sleep for days until this pervasive exhaustion finally passes.

Soft footfalls pull him from his spiraling reverie, and he turns his head now to see his child wandering in, dark curls a riotous mess atop his head (he needs them cut, perhaps Robin will do it tomorrow). It’s a familiar routine, this sleepless midnight wandering, so Robin says nothing, simply lifts the covers between himself and the edge of the bed and waits for Roland to climb in beside him.

“Papa, I’m tired,” the boy whimpers, and Robin draws him in close, pulls him to his chest until his ear is pressed there.

“I know, my boy,” he tells him, and, “Me too.” Then settles his hand on the side of his son’s head, palm over his other ear in hopes that soon all Roland will hear is the steady beat of his father’s heart.

The boy sighs, and relaxes, shuffles a little and then settles against him.

Before he falls asleep, he asks into the not-quite-dark, “When can we go home?”

It makes Robin ache to know he has no answer.


End file.
